Highway 41*

(*An obscure poem I wrote in October 2011 and soon forgot.)

 

         Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues,
          you can tell by the way she smiles.
— Bob Dylan, Visions of Johanna

Ants parade past
pumpkin patches and tourist traps.
A short, fat woman
walks her short, fat dogs.
Lutheran lawn —
last mowing before snowing.
A full sheet of plywood
leaned against a red horse trailer.
Tall white pines open their arms
and conduct a romantic score.
A menagerie of cat tails.
Whim-whammy whirligigs
whiplashing like whirring prayer-wheels
in the wicked west wind.
What does the raven have in his bill?
The driver’s seat hurts my collarbone,
clavicle from the Latin for key,
for opening things.

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Published by

Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner

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